


set me on fire (let's burn together)

by stumbling_through_the_world



Series: set me on fire (let's burn together) [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stumbling_through_the_world/pseuds/stumbling_through_the_world
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s never seen Lexa like this. Judging from Indra’s look when Lexa waved her away with a sloppy hand gesture, no one has ever seen her quite like this.</p><p>She’s angry. Furious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	set me on fire (let's burn together)

She’s never seen Lexa like this. Judging from Indra’s look when Lexa waved her away with a sloppy hand gesture, no one has ever seen her quite like this.

She’s angry. Furious.

“You don’t- do you not comprehend- you are a leader, Clarke!” It’s been going on like this for a while, words in Trigedasleng tossed in when she’s especially exasperated. She may have been called a self-sacrficing, idiotic Sky person, but she’s not entirely sure. They’re alone in the med bay on the Ark. Clarke’s wound had been fixed up easily enough and there were no other injuries today.

Clarke wonders mildly if she should maybe interrupt the rant at some point when Lexa refocuses. “You are a leader. You are not my bodyguard.”

“Everything went fine,” she reminds the other woman.

“You nearly sacrificed your life to save me. That is not fine.”

“Why not?”

“You are a leader.” Which is completely repetitive at this point. She gets it, she’s a leader. “You do not make these kind of sacrifices.” Lexa paces angrily through the room, her hands on her waist.

“Isn’t being a leader all about making sacrifices?”

“For your people. Not for me!”

“Lexa,” she steps closer, places a careful hand on the other woman’s arm.

“Lexa, look at me. We won. We saved our people. You’re alive. And I’m fine- it was just a graze.”

“You took a bullet for me.”

Defiant, she meets Lexa’s eyes. “Yes.” Close enough, at least. She’d seen the shooter, seen him aim, and she’d pushed Lexa out of the line of fire. She’d just kind of ended up there herself.

Lexa’s gaze is filled with anger, but there is something else there. Concern. Worry. “You could have died.”

“I didn’t,” Clarke reminds her. “I’m alive.”

“Don’t do it again.” She doesn’t quite know who closes the distance, but then Lexa’s lips are on hers. She tastes of wood and blood and gunpowder and war just barely won. She tastes alive and Clarke would push herself into the flight of that bullet again and again. (And never admit it out loud.)

She lets her hands tangle in braided hair and feels Lexa’s hands glide over her hips, pushing her backwards against one of the cots in the med bay. She feels alive.

She touches the clasp of Lexa’s armor, lets her fingers trail before finding the notch and clicking down. It clatters to the ground, loudly, and Lexa is pressed against her seconds later, pushing a thigh between Clarke’s legs, her hands trailing higher.

Fuck. She bites down on Lexa’s lip and Lexa’s hands find her breasts and god damn. This feels like burning. She pulls the other woman impossibly closer, wrapping a leg around Lexa’s waist and lifting herself up on the cot more fully. Her other leg is between Lexa’s thigh now, and she feels wet and desperate.They’re still kissing, messy and hurried and Clarke doesn’t think she ever wants to stop. (Couldn’t even if she wanted to.)

Lexa’s hands tear at her shirt, ripping above her breasts. She pulls away, just a little, drags the shirt over her head and unclasps her bra.

And then Lexa’s mouth is on her breasts, nipping, biting in a way that she is sure will bruise and has her gasping for air. And Lexa’s hands are seemingly everywhere on her body, trailing over her, moving and lingering. She feels wanting, consumed by whatever it is between them.

“Lexa. Please.” Lexa’s hand unzip her jeans and she lifts her hips as Lexa tugs with swift moments

“As you wish, Clarke.” Her voice is rough now, almost sultry and when Clarke looks up to meet her eyes they’re dark, filled with want and desire and God, she’s fucking gorgeous.

Lexa pushes inside of her slowly and her breath catches.

She lets herself get lost and Lexa is right there, moving inside of her, kissing her, her other hand on Clarke’s back holding her in place in a way that almost makes her feel safe. Her hips are rocking against Clarke’s thigh and when Clarke pushes up against her she moans, loud in the empty room, warm breath against Clarke’s ear.

She moves her mouth, trails her lips over Lexa’s neck and pushes up against her Lexa’s finger push deeper inside of her and they find a rhythm that has need curling inside of Clarke.

“More,” she pleads and Lexa pushes faster, harder and Clarke is close. She moves her mouth over Lexa’s neck again, sucks when she finds the pulse point, hard and Lexa whispers her name, sounding just as needy as Clarke feels.

Lexa’s thumb brushes over her clit and Clarke clenches. She writhes, pushes upwards and muffles her scream against Lexa’s neck, biting down before losing herself in the fire and falling apart and the only thing she hears is Lexa groaning her name.

She doesn’t quite know how much time passes until her breathing slows. She’s still leaning against the cot. Carefully, she raises her head to meet Lexa’s eyes, filled with something she can’t seem to decipher. She’s beautiful like this, her hair open and tangled, without her armor, her lips swollen. Clarke can’t help but smile. “You look a mess.”

“They will be expecting us in the war room,” Lexa says, formal. And Clarke understands, because whatever this thing between them, it isn’t easy. Still, she wraps her fingers around Lexa’s wrists when the other woman begins walking away. “Not yet.”

It’s obvious that Lexa is itching to move when Clarke’s fingers untangle the mess she made of her hair, but she attempts the glare she usually reserves for stubborn patients. “If you go out there looking like this, we’ll have a rebellion on our hands.” She shifts the collar of Lexa’s shirt until it covers the marks Clarke left on her neck.

She runs her hands through her own hair, closes the buttons of her jacket over her the tear in her shirt. Her hands feel shaky. She kisses Lexa, briefly, even though she should know better.

 


End file.
